


The World Is Round

by sneaqui



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Relationship Development, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneaqui/pseuds/sneaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The development of a relationship over a period of six years and several false starts. In which Eames lives and works almost exclusively in Africa and doesn't like to talk about his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Is Round

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Inception Reversebang (Thank you, ladies, for doing it again this year!) for [wlprocrastinate's lovely and very inspiring art](http://wlprocrastinate.livejournal.com/16627.html)! Go shower praise upon her!
> 
> Beta-ed by [ladderax](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allnuthatchforest/pseuds/ladderax), Brit-picked by [eternalsojourn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/works), and featuring Arabic provided by [night_reveals](http://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals). Tender kisses for all of you.

**Dunia duara**  
 _The world is round._  
 _(Wherever you go, you will always return to the same place.)_  
\- Swahili saying

 

There are eleven countries that contain the six thousand kilometer length of the Nile River. Eames has lived in almost all of them over the course of his twenty-seven years. He hesitates to call eastern Africa his home - aware as he is that his presence here is an echo of his forebears' trespasses - but it’s the only place in the world in which he will deliberately spend an extended period of time.

The eighteen months that he just spent in London with MI6 were rather bleak - cold and wet and full of people who went to great lengths to avoid speaking to each other. He’s relieved to be back in Cairo, but he could do without the drab and stifling outfit MI6 has him wearing as part of his Globetrotting Businessman cover. It causes him to stand out even more than he usually does, although not as badly as the bloke he’s following - last name Dask if Eames remembers the details of his dream correctly.

Dask is dressed in ARMY fatigues - not the wisest thing to wear if one doesn’t want to attract attention from locals. His thin white t-shirt does, however, allow Eames a rather nice view of his back and the alluring curve that runs from the top of his arse to the dip between his trapezius muscles. Eames allows his gaze to wander up its length as he walks toward Dask, who’s now being circled by a small posse of local children. An intrepid brother and sister pair approach him from either side and tug at the seams of his trousers. “Mister. Mister,” they titter in stereo, fascinated by his confusion and growing anxiety.

Eames decides to intervene, his reasons for doing so more perverse than noble. He and Dask have only met once: less than twenty-four hours ago, Eames was strapped to a chair as part of his least favorite in-dream training exercise while Dask kept a stoic watch over him. Eames had ample time to admire him during the silent hour and a half they spent in each others’ company, and because Eames was wearing a forge at the time, he can now flirt freely without Dask suspecting who he really is. Dask may have stood by and watched while one of his teammates shattered all the bones in Eames’ right hand with the butt of a submachine gun, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s gorgeous.

Eames pockets his right hand and waves his left through the air as he wades through Dask’s attendant swarm of ragamuffins. “Imshi. Imshi, ( _Get walking._ )” he says, and as soon as one child runs off down the street the rest of them follow, schooling like fish.

Dask looks after them, confusion crinkling his forehead. “I gave them a pack of colored pencils last week,” he says. “I guess they forgot.”

“No, they remember. They're wondering what you'll give them today."

Dask smiles, dimples punctuating the expression. "Smart kids," he says and then turns and resumes his walk down the street. He keeps his steps slow and leaves an open space on his left side, as if he’s asking Eames to join him. Eames accepts the invitation, falling into step next to him.

They walk in comfortable silence for a few moments. Eames glances at the various groups of people that they pass. Round-bellied men lounging in plastic lawn chairs outside of shop fronts, smoking and gossiping. Women wearing head coverings and knee-high black leather boots. Pairs of young men holding hands and whispering in each others’ ears.

One such couple walks by and Dask watches them as they pass, craning his head over his shoulder until it won’t rotate any further. He snaps his head back around, looks over at Eames and clears his throat. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“My name is Eames.” It is, historically, the most accurate answer. It’s also the name least likely to be found in a perfunctory search of MI6’s databases.

“That your first name?”

Eames shrugs. “It’s what people call me. And you?”

“Arthur. First name. No variations, please. Call me ‘Artie’ and I’ll kick you in the teeth.”

Eames grins, unexpectedly charmed by Dask-- Arthur’s abrasiveness. “Noted.”

Arthur nods, satisfied. “So,” he says, “Do you live here?”

“Used to. I’m currently in town on business,” Eames lies. “And you?”

Arthur gestures to his outfit. “I’ll give you two guesses.”

“Are you coming or going?”

“I ship out in three days.” Eames knows it to be a lie, but Arthur says it with ease, nothing in his expression to suggest telling it makes him uncomfortable. Eames is impressed and is considering quizzing him on the details of his fictional deployment, just for laughs, when Arthur shifts his gait so that he’s walking a bit closer and asks, “Do you do this often? Rescue out-of-towners from awkward situations?”

“Of course not,” Eames replies with a smirk. “Cairo is so full of tourists, I’d never get any work done.”

Arthur smiles, small and brief. “I would say you can buy me a drink, but I have to be back on base later.”

“Well, it’s almost tea time. I know a place if you’re interested.”

Arthur regards the side of Eames’ face for a moment, and then he nods, approving of the suggestion. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

~

Eames leads them to a teahouse located deep in Cairo’s labyrinthine sprawl. Turn-of-the-century four- and five-storey buildings rise up on either side of them and shade the narrow streets from the sun. The indirect light catches the dust in the air, making everything around them appear gold-tinted and ancient.

They seat themselves and Eames orders for both of them at Arthur’s request: two glasses of koshary tea and baklava.

Arthur attempts to start the conversation with, “So you used to live here?”

“Did I say that?” Eames deflects. Revealing even innocuous details of his life could lead to a dangerous verbal slip-up. And there are ways to get Arthur into bed that don’t involve Eames telling maudlin stories about his childhood.

Arthur pushes a short laugh out through his nose. “Does that mean you don’t want to talk about it?”

Eames shrugs. “I’m sure we can think of other, more interesting things to talk about.”

“Just as long as those things aren’t American politics or foreign policy.”

“Getting nasty looks from the locals, are you?”

A waiter arrives then and sets down a tray in the middle of their table. On it are two small pots and two already-poured glasses of tea, whole stems of mint sticking out of both of them. Arthur pulls his up out of his glass and rotates it. “Impressive garnish,” he says.

“Leave it,” Eames tells him, gently. “The tea will taste better with it in. I promise you.”

Arthur picks a mint leaf off his stem and pops it into his mouth. He nibbles on it as he speaks, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation. “I understand why people are angry. I’m lucky dirty looks are all I’m getting.”

Eames tilts an eyebrow at him and reaches into the middle of the table to pick up the milk jug. “Are you saying you don’t support your government’s actions?”

Arthur adjusts his elbows in the table and curves his shoulders inward, suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. “I’m a soldier,” he says. “My opinion doesn’t matter, only my actions.” He looks up and around at the walls of the cafe, all of them adorned with five-foot tall mirrors encased in antique frames. “I like the parallel mirrors,” he says, changing the subject with intent. “They make the cafe look bigger.”

Eames doesn’t have to look to know what Arthur is talking about. This cafe was his dad’s favorite, and he’d always bring Eames here whenever they were in Cairo. His mum never accompanied them, unnerved by the mirrors and seeing her reflection repeated ad infinitum. “I’ve always wondered," Eames says, "are the reflections in either mirror actually infinite?”

“It depends on what theory of physics you’re using - special relativity or quantum mechanics. But the answer in either case is no.” Arthur picks up his glass of tea and gulps down half of its contents. It must burn horribly on its way down, but Arthur doesn’t acknowledge it with anything but a brief clearing of his throat. “In the case of special relativity, finite time prevents an infinite number of reflections from being created. In the case of quantum mechanics, finite light guarantees a finite number of reflections.”

Eames purses his lips, rotates his glass on the table and admits, “You lost me at the word ‘physics’.”

Arthur chuckles and leans his chair back until its two front legs rise up of the floor. “Not a big fan of the natural sciences?”

“It has nothing to do with whether or not I like them and everything to do with the fact that I’m complete crap at them.” Eames lifts his tea off the table and takes a sip. It’s perfectly brewed, but it needs more sugar. He puts it back down on the table and reaches for the sugar bowl, his hand taking a detour to the baklava. He picks up a piece and pops the entirety of it into his mouth. “I do know a thing or two about history, though,” he says as he chews, holding his fist in front of his mouth out of courtesy. “You, know, it was an Egyptian man that came up with the first somewhat accurate theory of sight.”

Arthur leans forward and the front two legs of his chair slam into the stone floor. Several of their fellow patrons jump in their seats and turn to stare at them. Arthur doesn’t notice. "Really," he says, staring across the table at Eames.

“Really. His name was Alhazen. He based his ideas on those of the Greek philosophers. In the thirteen hundred years between Aristotle’s lifetime and Alhazen’s, no one had come up with a more accurate theory.” Eames swallows the remainder of his baklava, tastes the honey still clinging to his back molars with the tip of his tongue. “The most popular one was that vision occurred when anything got in the way of the invisible rays that came out of people’s eyes.”

“Alhazen,” Arthur murmurs. His eyes narrow as he tries to pull a thought from the back of his mind. “We learnt about him in AP Physics. He wasn’t Egyptian. He was born in Iraq.” He picks up his glass and tosses back the remainder of its contents.

Good thing Eames has never been attracted to modesty. He feels his mouth tilt into a grin as he says, “Show off.”

Arthur ignores the tease and stares down into his tea as he says, “They never teach you about Iraq in history class. I mean, you learn about Mesopotamia. But they never make a point of telling you that it’s modern-day Iraq. Did you know that the Iraqis invented the decimal system? Batteries? Writing?”

“And the potter’s wheel,” Eames points out.

“You heard about those soldiers that looted the museum in Baghdad, right? Those fuckers should be put in front of a firing squad.” Righteous fury looks good on Arthur; it turns his eyes flinty and drops his voice into a low rumble.

Eames leans forward over the table and says, low and conspiratorial, “No offense, love, but I don’t think you’re cut out to be a soldier.”

Arthur looks up at him from underneath his eyebrows and grins, baring his teeth. “I think you’re right.”

~

A couple of hours later they’re walking west towards the Nile. They pass through a small square where friends and families have gathered to socialize before evening prayer and are almost two blocks out from it when the hiss and spit of a firecracker catching alight reaches Eames’ ears. The succeeding pops remind him of gunfire. Or the sound of several small bones - like those in the human hand - shattering all at once.

Eames knows better than to run; it will only elevate his heart rate and convince his body that he’s in trouble. He takes deep breaths, lets them out slowly and keeps walking. After far too long, the streets broaden and the Nile appears in front of them. It’s wide and calm and the sight of it immediately grounds Eames in the present, assures him of where he is. He keeps walking until his chest hits the iron railing that runs along the river promenade. He breathes deep, inhaling the centering smell of damp earth and diesel fumes. His heart slows and the rapid-fire pops of the fireworks fade to a succession of barely-audible thumps in the background.

A slim figure appears in the corner of his vision, and he turns his head to see Arthur leaning against the railing a couple feet away. He’s twiddling his thumbs and regarding Eames calmly, as if he didn’t just watch him nearly go off his nut. He nods at Eames’ hands where they’re hanging off the railing and says, “You alright?”

Eames looks down and sees that his right hand is shaking, completely without his knowledge or permission. He pushes his fingertips into and out of his palm a few times. “Fine, thanks. Just an old injury.”

Arthur turns to face him and holds his own hand out. “Can I see?” he asks.

“Not sure what you’d be able to do-”

“I’m good with injuries. C’mon, hand it over.” Arthur smiles at his own pun as he curls his fingers around Eames' palm.

He prods at the muscles in Eames’ hand with his fingertips, as if in search of something. “Doesn’t seem like there’s any lasting damage,” he murmurs, “Whoever treated your injury did a good job.” Diagnosis given, Arthur’s touch softens and his examination turns into a massage. His fingers are lean and strong, like the rest of him, and they dig into the muscles of Eames’ hand and forearm with an innate confidence, as if Eames’ body is something with which Arthur is already intimately familiar.

Eames lets his head loll forward and breathes out a truncated whimper when Arthur’s thumbs dig into a particularly pleasurable spot on the ball of his hand.

Arthur chuckles and turns his face toward Eames’. His lips are now close enough that Eames can hear them part when Arthur says, “That’s your cock.”

“On what planet?” Eames asks, his voice coming out higher pitched than he means it to.

Arthur’s only answer is a smile. He continues to name different parts of the body as his fingers move over Eames’ hand. “That’s your spleen. That’s your heart.” His fingers press into the top corner of Eames’ palm, just beneath his pinky, and Eames’ right deltoid contracts, strong and sudden and painful. He gasps and instinctively yanks his hand away.

Arthur eases his grip but doesn’t let go. “And that’s an injury in your right shoulder.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Eames snaps, but he leaves his hand in Arthur’s. Arthur concentrates pressure on the same spot and an almost bone-deep knot of pain in Eames’ shoulder that he forgot existed begins to tingle and then break apart. Eames waits for the sensation to subside and then rolls his shoulder, carefully. It feels better than it has in eight years. “Fucking hell, that’s incredible. Where’d you learn to do this?”

“One of the girls in the Corps learnt it from her mom. She taught the rest of us.”

“The Marine Corps?”

“No,” Arthur pauses, pushes his lips together and deliberates something for a moment before he continues, “The Michigan Junior Militia Corps.”

Eames can only venture a guess as to what that is based on the title. It sounds singularly American and singularly terrifying. “You were a child soldier.”

Arthur snorts and shakes his head. “No. It was kinda like the Boy Scouts. Only with more guns and a slightly elevated level of paranoia.”

A loud and sudden electronic trill causes Eames to jump, and Arthur to yank his own hands away and shove them into his pockets. He pulls out a mobile from the left one and frowns down at the screen. “No,” he says, low and sullen. “Not yet.”

Eames rubs his right palm with the thumb and forefinger of his left. “Need to get back to base?”

“Yeah- Yeah,” Arthur mutters, his eyes still on the screen in his hand. “Yeah, I should get going.” He looks up, pockets his mobile. The corner of his mouth tilts up in an attempt at a smile. “I’m sorry.”

Eames straightens up and clears his throat. He’s not about to start whinging over Arthur’s unexpected departure. “No worries. It was fun, yeah? Better than sitting in my hotel room by myself.”

Arthur presses his lips together and nods, obviously dissatisfied with Eames’ send-off. But Eames isn’t about to go asking for promises or platitudes.

“It _was_ fun,” Arthur says and pauses for a moment before continuing, “More fun than I’ll probably have for a while. So thank you.”

Arthur’s words are an unexpected punch to Eames’ gut, and he has to take a deep breath before saying, “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

Arthur smiles at that and says, “I will.” He tucks his hands into his pockets and begins to walk backwards. He’s a few feet away when he says, “You should too.” And then he turns and walks swiftly down the promenade, disappearing within the crowd of locals and tourists.

Eames wouldn’t say he enjoys deceiving people, but he does get a thrill out of maintaining his cover during unexpected encounters. At no point in the course of his afternoon with Arthur did he give up any possibly compromising details about himself or the work he does. Arthur walked away knowing nothing about him besides his (not entirely accurate) name. That thought carves a small hollow in Eames’ gut that feels a lot like disappointment.

~

Eames doesn’t see Arthur during their training exercises after that, and no one - not his fellow soldiers nor his commanders - mentions him. Eames wonders if Arthur was ever real to begin with. It would be a shame if he wasn’t. Eames’ isn’t sure how he feels about tossing off to a figment of his own imagination.

About two years later, during a job in Antananarivo, a chemist tells Eames about the first man to smuggle Somnacin out of the hands of the U.S. military. He was stationed at Naval Medical Research Unit 3 in Cairo at the time. And his name was Arthur.

~

Three years after Cairo - two years after Eames is killed in the line of duty and decides to stay dead - Eames meets Arthur again in Maputo, Mozambique. Eames has never been here before, but twenty minutes into the taxi ride from the airport to the work site he’s decided that it’s a place he wouldn’t mind returning to in his spare time.

The Indian Ocean borders the city on two sides and warm salt-tasting air drifts through the streets, shaking palm trees and pushing debris along the asphalt. Sheer-faced modern apartment towers and pastel-coloured municipal buildings stand proudly alongside each other. Women walk to and from the market with bundles on their heads and families set up grills and cook food on the sidewalk.

He’s here at the behest of an extractor named Xiluva. The job is high-paying and high pressure: their client is the World Bank, and Xiluva never accepts anything less than perfection. Eames has worked with her before as well as her chemist, a Portuguese expat named Marcelo. She’s also hired a fourth team member, a “point man”. It’s a job title Eames hears more and more often these days, although he’s never worked on a team that’s included one before and wonders how necessary they are to the success of a job.

Eames walks into the mansion to find himself alone. There are two notes taped to the chalkboard in the middle of the main parlor: one from Xiluva telling him that she went out to get lunch and will be back in an hour and another that Eames assumes is from their point man. It reads:

_Eames,_  
 _On an important call. Don’t interrupt._

Eames can hear him out on the courtyard - speaking in a quiet growl - and smell him smoking a cigarette. He’ll obviously be a joy to work with.

Eames decides to not waste time waiting; he’s eager to get to work. All of the equipment has already been set up, so Eames makes himself comfortable in a large carved wooden chair, plugs into the PASIV and sets the timer for five minutes, giving himself an hour in the dream. He’s already conceptualized two forges for this job that he needs to flesh out.

He awakens five minutes later to see Arthur seated a few feet in front of him in a folding metal chair, leaning his elbows forward on his knees and reviewing the contents of a manila folder. He looks up and grins when Eames takes his first full waking breath. “I thought it might be you,” he says.

Eames stares, shock making him stupid. He must look stupid as well because Arthur chuckles as he stands, tossing the manila folder down onto the seat of his chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls up the sleeves with sharp, efficient flicks of his wrist as he walks toward Eames. He moves with a grace that makes the young man Eames met four years ago seem ungainly by comparison.

He crouches down on the balls of his feet next to Eames’ chair, wraps his hand around Eames’ and undoes the strap that binds the line to his wrist. “You got kinda fat,” he says, and then he looks up at Eames from underneath his eyelashes and smiles, an alluring curve of his lips. “It looks good on you.”

Eames turns his body towards him, leans forward in his seat. “And you grew up.” As he says it, something occurs to him. “How old were you in Cairo?”

“Twenty-one,” Arthur answers easily. He pulls the needle out of Eames’ wrist and presses a cotton pad to the puncture site. “Why? How old did you think I was?”

Eames ignores the question. “You were assigned to a highly classified project three years out of basic training? Did you lie about your age when you enlisted?”

“Nope.”

“How did you get assigned to the program then?” The U.S. military, for all of its well-known cock-ups, would never assign a fledgling jarhead to a classified, experimental and incredibly expensive project without a damn good reason. “Did you have connections?” Eames asks.

“No.” Arthur drops Eames’ hand and tosses the cotton pad into a paper bag full of things that will need to be burned once the job is done. He stays crouched down next to Eames and looks up at him as he explains. “I was in one of the first companies that they experimented on.” He taps two fingers against his temple. “Off the chart visual and spatial memory.”

“You were a prodigy.” Eames has only ever met one other soldier who was brought onto a classified dreamshare project after being part of an experiment, a woman named Cassandra that he worked alongside at MI6.

“Yeah, I guess I was,” Arthur says. It amazes Eames that he can be so casual about the whole ordeal. He wonders if Arthur had any idea what he was in for when the military brought him onto the project, whether they even told him he’d be doing more than just holding the dream together.

Arthur reaches down into the guts of the PASIV to pull out Eames’ used line. Eames watches the side of his face as he works, watches as a bead of sweat forms at Arthur’s temple and runs down his jaw.

“What about you?” Arthur says, interrupting Eames’ train of thought.

Eames leans back in the chair, props his arms up on the rests. “What about me?”

“You were Special Forces, right? Which one led to the other: MI6 or dreamshare?”

Less than two years in the field with MI6 and Eames still locks up when anyone asks him about his past. Distracted as he is by his instinctual reaction, it takes Eames a moment to realize that there’s something a bit odd about Arthur’s question. “It wouldn’t have taken you much more digging to find out the answer to that question once you figured out that I was MI6,” Eames says. “Why didn’t you?”

Arthur seems completely uninterested in Eames’ existential crisis. He keeps his eyes on his hand as he wraps Eames’ used line around his fingers. “When I do background checks on the people I work with, I’m not trying to figure out their life story. I’m just looking for a few basic facts: patterns of behavior, success rate. Those sorts of things.” He smirks. “Besides, you’ve heard one dreamshare sob story, you’ve heard them all.”

Eames cuffs Arthur on the shoulder and mutters, “Smart arse.”

Arthur chuckles and rocks back on his heels, and then he freezes when the clack of heeled shoes echoes through the parlor. A voice, deep and vibrating with laughter says, “Oh no. Eames, you leave him alone.”

Eames turns his head to see Xiluva. She’s obviously just finished her lunch, still picking the remnants out of her teeth with her tongue and balling up a used piece of aluminum foil. She looks back and forth between Eames and Arthur, smirking.

Eames smiles back and says, “Lovely to see you again, Xiluva. How was lunch?”

She tosses the ball of aluminum foil into a nearby trashcan, reaches around to the small of her back and pulls out a Vektor Z88. “It was productive,” she says, and although she’s still smiling at the two of them, Eames knows that it’s only because she’s amused by their flirting, not because she approves of it. She checks the safety on her pistol before putting it in a desk drawer. “What about you? What have you done besides fool around with Arthur?”

At those words, Arthur rises to standing in a single graceful move. He turns and walks across the room towards his desk, picking up the folder from his chair as he walks by it. Eames sighs, rubs a hand over his face and hauls himself up out of his chair. Time to get to work.

~

Arthur avoids eye contact with Eames the rest of the day, even when they’re hunched over Arthur’s desk, shoulder to shoulder, discussing which Vodacom executives Eames should try to gain access to. Eames isn’t sure why Arthur’s being stroppy with him when Xiluva was the one who scolded them like a couple of horny teenagers. Perhaps Eames is simply an easier target for Arthur’s ire. Eames gives him space and waits a couple of days for the angry cloud over his head to disperse.

It doesn’t. It would seem that, among his many talents, Arthur excels at holding a grudge.

Eames approaches him at the end of their third day on the job, waiting until Xiluva and Marcelo have gone home. Arthur is seated in front of the chalkboard, taking note of every word and symbol that’s scribbled across its surface so that he can erase it.

Eames walks up and stands just to the side of it, places his hands in his pockets and says, “You know, Xiluva’s not going to sack you just for being friendly with me.”

Arthur doesn’t look up from his Moleskine. “I know she’s not.”

Eames forces himself to remain still and keep his breathing even, not wanting to telegraph his frustration. “Well, perhaps you could tell me what you’re trying to accomplish by keeping your distance so that I can act accordingly.”

Arthur pauses in his writing, tucks his pen into his Moleskine and places it on the chair beside him. “I know this isn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound terribly sorry, that deep and authoritative timbre in his voice that’s meant to make people think he’s older than he looks. “I’ve been in this business for less than a year, and I’ve gotten farther in that time than most people do in ten.” He’s still looking down, not meeting Eames’ eyes. “And I’ve done that by presenting myself as a professional. I come in, I get the job done, and I leave with my cut, nothing more. I keep my personal life separate.” At last he peers up at Eames from underneath his eyebrows, and the look in his eyes stoppers any of Eames’ protests in his throat. Arthur’s gaze isn’t hard and demanding, it’s soft and almost sad, as if he’s hoping but not expecting Eames to understand.

Eames does understand. This business is unforgiving, life- and soul-sapping, and the longest careers don’t last over five or six years. Eames can see Arthur lasting even longer than that if he has a mind to. Arthur could be legendary as long as he doesn’t let himself get distracted by men like Eames, an unapologetic swindler and a cad, the type of man who’s distrusted above all others in a business full of thieves.

Eames bows his head and nods, submitting to Arthur’s logic, “Fair-” He finds his voice hoarse, and he clears his throat before continuing, “Fair enough. I can understand that.” He’s not so much angry with Arthur as he is with their relative situations, but he can’t help but be petty with his parting words. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” he says and then walks out of the mansion without looking back.

For the next three weeks, he keeps his distance from Arthur, only speaking to him when it’s in regards to the job. It goes off as planned. They complete the extraction on time and to the letter of their agreement with the World Bank.

Eames walks away a quarter of a million USD richer and with a very powerful ally in his back pocket. He settles himself in Kampala, and he turns down the next two jobs he’s offered on which Arthur’s running point. He does it both for his and Arthur’s sake, to spare them both the headache and the temptation.

~

A year after Maputo, Eames is still in Kampala - and Kampala is under three feet of water - when Arthur calls him. Eames answers his mobile expecting it to be Yusuf, the pharmacist whose shop he’s just spent the last eight hours trying to salvage.

Instead, a broad American accent comes booming out of the earpiece, “What do I have to do to get you to work a job with me? Do you want me to apologize? Because I will.” It sounds more like a threat than a plea.

“Arthur,” Eames sighs, trying to convey with two syllables exactly how much he does not want to have this conversation right now. He’s just helped Yusuf haul eighteen suitcases full of volatile chemicals up four flights of stairs to his apartment. And the dearth of food and water he’s been taking in for the past four days, along with his frequent trips to the loo, have left him feeling weak. He hopes to God he hasn’t contracted cholera.

Eames shuffles sideways until he’s standing in front of his couch, slumps down onto it and lets out a deep breath. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, Arthur. I meant what I said that day, about understanding why you had to...” He really doesn’t want to go into detail; just the memory of Arthur’s cold regard stings a bit. And Eames is not a big enough man to absolve Arthur entirely of any guilt he may feel.

“So you’ll take the job?” Arthur asks.

“I can’t.” Eames looks out his window at the rain, the buckets his neighbors have hung out their windows to collect the fresh water. “I can’t get out of Uganda.”

“What do you mean you can’t get out of Uganda?”

“I mean I can’t get out of Uganda. There’s been water in the streets up to my arse for the past four days. I’m running dangerously low on food and water and so is everyone else. The sewers have overflown. I can’t get anywhere because anything - and I do mean anything - that floats is being used to take people to and from hospital. And half a dozen feral cats have taken up residence in my apartment because I live on the top floor. I mean the whole of central Africa is bloody well flooded and no one’s going anywhere until the rain stops or the aid workers arrive.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line and then a rapid succession of taps that sound like Arthur typing. “Holy shit,” he breathes out. “You’re not kidding.”

“When have you ever known me to be facetious?” Eames means it as a joke but it comes out sounding rather snide.

Arthur ignores him, likely reading whatever CNN article he’s found. For several moments there’s only the sound of Arthur muttering the occasional phrase of disbelief into receiver. At last he says, “I might be able to get you out.” He sounds a bit hesitant, as if wary of making any promises. “I know some people in Mogadishu that have access to helicopters.”

Eames thinks about it and then, for some reason that he can’t begin to fathom, thinks of Nafuna, the seventy-eight year old woman who lives on the ground floor of his building. Nafuna, who walked up four flights of stairs with a cardboard box full of her most precious possessions and handed them over to Eames for safekeeping with a smile on her face. No question in her mind as to whether or not Eames would take care of them for her. No idea that Eames was a thief.

“No,” Eames says, leaning forward on the couch and wiping the sweat from the back of his neck with a dirty palm. “No, I’m not going anywhere.”

He braces himself for Arthur’s outright refusal of rejection, but Arthur simply asks, “Why?”

Eames doesn’t have the energy to articulate his exact reasons, so he just says, “I can’t leave. That’s all there is to it.”

Arthur doesn’t respond right away. There’s a beat of silence, and then he says, “Yeah. Alright.” He sighs into the receiver, creating static in Eames’ ear. “Do you know any other forgers who might be available? What about Pratima?”

“Last I heard she was expecting. She’s out of the game for the next year or two.” Eames rubs the underside of his chin with his knuckles as he thinks. “I believe Tomás is looking for work.”

Arthur breathes out a short laugh. “Tomás is notoriously fearful of the U.S. government. I seriously doubt he’ll want to work with Cobb.”

Eames sits up straight. “Dominic Cobb? The extractor who killed his wife?”

“The extractor _accused_ of killing his wife.” Arthur sounds exhausted just saying it, as if he’s not so much defending Cobb as he is repeating something he’s had to too many times. “And he didn’t do it. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.”

“‘That’s all well and good but he’s not exactly the best person to ally yourself with, is he?”

“Maybe not but- I can’t leave him,” Arthur says, voice reedy. “That’s all there is to it.”

Eames feels a stab of what he knows full well is resentment. That Arthur would keep his distance from Eames as a way to preserve his professional reputation just to team up with a man accused of murder. Eames bites back the urge to ask Arthur _Why?_. Instead he lets out his disappointment on a deep breath and says, “Call Barrow. He should be available.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Arthur says, “Okay. Barrow. Yeah, I’ll give him a call.” Eames hears the scratch of pencil on paper. “Fair warning though,” Arthur goes on, “Cobb’s gonna try to recruit you at some point. He may be on the lam but he’s still competitive as fuck. He likes working with the best.”

Eames leans forward on the couch. “I’m sorry. Did you just refer to me as ‘the best’?”

“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard from other people,” Arthur counters. “I have no opinion one way or the other. I only worked with you the once, remember?”

“That’s unfortunate. We’ll have to do something about that in the future, won’t we?”

“What do you mean ‘we’? You’re the one who refuses to take a job with me.”

Eames takes a moment to choose his words, wanting to be truthful without sounding cloying. “I thought it would be easier for the both of us if I kept my distance.”

Arthur chuckles and says, the timbre of his voice warm and inviting, “If I wanted my life to be easy, I wouldn’t be working with Cobb.” A click and an absence of noise signals another call coming in on his end, and Arthur curses, “Shit. That’s him. I gotta go.” There’s a pause, and then he says, “Take care of yourself, Eames,” and rings off.

Eames leaves his mobile pressed to his ear for several moments after the call disconnects, stunned by Arthur’s rather blatant invitation. And then his disbelief morphs into delight. He tosses his mobile onto the couch, hauls himself up and gets back to work with a smile on his face.

~

Two years later, Eames is on his back on a hotel room floor and Arthur is kneeling over him, his hand warm and steady around Eames’ wrist.

“Just be back before the kick.”

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

Eames does so grinning, amused by how in-keeping their current situation is with the crooked trajectory of his and Arthur’s relationship. Of course it should end like this: before it even starts. An absurd six-year-long courtship ending in madness.

Eames’ last thought before he drops into sleep is what the consequence of falling into Limbo while nested inside of Arthur’s dream will be, whether that means he’ll be able to find him down there.

He’s spared having to find out, but his stomach drops all over again when he wakes to see Arthur staring across the aisle at Cobb, looking wretched. Eames wishes he could throttle Cobb into wakefulness. After all he’s done, Arthur doesn’t deserve to get stuck down there with him or to spend one more moment of his life beset by guilt and grief.

Eames catches movement with the corner of his eye and looks away from Arthur to see Saito stirring. He awakens slowly, surfacing from the deep, and glances across the aisle. Whatever he sees there has him sitting up in his seat and reaching for the phone set into the seat in front of him.

Eames stares and blinks, processing what he’s seeing, and then he turns his head to find Arthur watching him. He’s looking up at Eames from underneath his eyebrows, his mouth curved up in a knowing smile, reminding Eames of the young cocky soldier he met six years ago.

~

Eames can’t risk so much as a glance in Arthur’s direction; Fischer is right there between them, waiting for his bags to drop onto the belt. Eames curses his luck when Arthur gets his luggage first and walks out of the exit without a backward glance.

~

Six weeks after pulling off the Fischer inception, Eames is in Tarangire Park in northern Tanzania. Roger Bell, a man whom Eames has known since he was twelve years old, has allowed Eames to come on as staff for a safari tour he’s leading through the Serengeti. Eames does this whenever he needs to disappear for a while or when Roger needs the extra help. Eames can relate to Roger in a way that he can few other people. Roger, like Eames, is an ex-pat with only the faintest early childhood memories of England. And most importantly, he doesn’t judge or ask for details regarding Eames’ current line of work.

On the fourth day of the trip Eames is sitting outside the kitchen tent playing Bao with Nicolas, the head chef. Eames and Nicolas have been playing Bao against each other for sixteen years, since Eames was a teenager and Nicolas a child, and Eames can count on one hand the number of times he’s come out the victor. This is not going to be one of those times. Eames stares down at the diminishing number of coffee beans in his hand, looks at the board and mutters, “Shit,” for the third time in as many minutes.

Nicolas shakes his head. “You should not curse so much, Thomas.”

Eames looks up at him, quirks an eyebrow and smiles. “Have I offended your delicate sensibilities, Nicolas?”

“It is not the curse words that bother me. It is how often you use them. Use any word too much and it will lose its meaning.” Nicolas takes a sip of his Fanta, keeping his eyes locked on Eames’ and smiling around the lip of the bottle. He often speaks in _kangas_ (proverbs) when in Eames’ presence, knowing how much curt responses to complicated questions annoy him.

Eames opens his mouth to argue when a Land Rover bounds into his line of sight. It’s Radhi, back from Manyara with groceries and supplies. Sitting in the passenger seat, gripping the window frame in order to keep from getting knocked about the interior, is Arthur. Eames stands, pockets his handful of coffee beans and walks toward the area where Radhi is about to park, on the opposite side of the kitchen tent.

When he gets there, Radhi and Arthur have opened the rear doors of the van and are unloading crates and boxes into the hands of waiting kitchen staff. Arthur is hefting a crate full of sweet potatoes up into his arms when he catches sight of Eames, and he smiles, bright and unabashed. He’s a lovely sight, wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt that shows off his biceps, his nose and the skin over his cheekbones beginning to bronze.

He walks over to Eames, stops when the box is less than an inch short of Eames’ chest and says, “You gonna stand there and stare, or are you gonna make yourself useful?”

Eames closes the distance between himself and the box, wraps his hands around Arthur’s where they’re clutching the bottom edges. Eames is grateful for the presence of a large object between them, wonders if Arthur approached him this way on purpose. If the box weren’t there, he may have done something stupid, something he’d rather not have everyone see. He ducks and tilts his head toward Arthur’s and says softly, “How the fuck did you get here?”

Arthur smirks and steps backwards, says, “I flew,” and then turns and walks back to the van to grab another box.

The time spent unloading the groceries bleeds into dinner prep, and Arthur works with them right through it, cutting onions until he cries and setting the tables in the dining tent with formidable proficiency. As soon as he’s done with one task, Nicolas sets him to another. Which, of course, means that Nicolas likes him. The entire staff takes to him immediately. Juma, the head waiter, shows him how to fold the napkins into the shape of impala antlers, and Radhi’s eleven-year-old son corners him and asks him what Obama’s like in person.

Eames catches Arthur smoking a cigarette under a nearby acacia tree after dinner service is over. When he sees Eames, he pulls another cigarette from his pack, lights the end with the tip of his own and hands it to him.

Eames nods, says, “Cheers,” pinches it between his fingers and takes a pull. “It’s too late to set up a separate tent for you tonight, so they’re putting an extra cot in mine.” He ashes onto the ground and rubs it in with the toe of his boot. “But you can have your own starting tomorrow if that’s what you want.”

He looks up to see Arthur smiling at him, soft and fond and telling Eames everything that he needs to know. “No. That’s not what I want.”

Eames takes a deep breath and steps toward him. Arthur’s smile widens, and he leans back against the trunk of the acacia, inviting Eames closer. They’re almost chest to chest when they’re jarred out of the moment by Radhi’s son, yelling at them from the kitchen tent to come wash dishes.

~

That night, Eames is in the shower soaping himself up when the curtains part and Arthur steps in, naked and shameless. He admires Eames openly, a pleased smile on his face as he approaches, presses the length of his body against Eames’, wraps his arms around his shoulders and kisses him.

Caught off guard as he is, Eames doesn’t even have the presence of mind to close his eyes when their lips meet. But when a rivulet of shampoo snakes down Eames’ forehead and into his eye, he has to. He flinches, tightens one hand around Arthur’s hip and brings the other one up to his eye, spits out, “Bugger.”

Arthur, heartless bastard that he is, leans his forehead against Eames’ temple and laughs at him.

Eames smacks him on the arse and mumbles, “Shut it, you tit.”

It does nothing to discourage Arthur who continues to snicker even as he helps Eames rinse the shampoo out of his hair. He brings his hands up, wraps them around Eames’ head, tilts it backwards, and massages out the suds, nibbling on the tendons of Eames’ neck as he does so.

They snog in the shower until the water runs out, and then they move to the bed, an operation that doesn’t go as smoothly as planned, at first. They attempt to push their two cots together in order to form one large one. But when Arthur squirms just so while Eames is fingering him open, the mattresses slide apart, and the pair of them are nearly swallowed up by the resulting gap.

After much laughing and a bit of fumbling (which consists of Arthur giving orders regarding proper cot alignment while Eames ignores him), they resign themselves to one cot. Arthur lays down on his side and Eames slides up behind him, wraps an arm across his chest and pulls him close. He slides his cock between Arthur’s arse cheeks, wanting to feel the warm receptive clench of Arthur’s arsehole againt his bare skin before they put latex between them. The muscle pulses against the shaft of Eames’ cock on a particularly slow pass, and Arthur sighs contentedly. It takes all of Eames’ considerable will to keep from grinding too hard into Arthur’s arse, knowing that it would take the pleasure out of the act for Arthur.

Arthur, refusing to be passive simply because he’s facing away from Eames, pushes his arse back into Eames’ pelvis, grabs the short hairs at the base of Eames’ skull and pulls his head down to kiss him. They lose several minutes taking lazy wet pulls from each others’ lips. Eames reaches down to cup Arthur’s bollocks, run the pad of his thumb up the shaft of his cock to its wet tip.

Arthur’s breath catches. “Please tell me you’re gonna fuck me.”

He must know that Eames fully intends to do so. Eames wonders if Arthur just wants to hear him say it. Not wanting to disappoint, he growls the words into Arthur’s mouth just to feel him shudder. “I’m going to fuck you.”

Arthur lunges off the bed, and a moment later a condom, still in its wrapper, comes flying over Arthur’s shoulder and lands on Eames’ chest. “You’re gonna have to do it,” Arthur says, sounding breathless. “My hands aren’t so steady right now.” Eames’ aren’t faring so well either, but he gets up on his knees to roll the condom on, giving his cock a few tugs once it’s on. When he notices that Arthur has turned his head to watch, his eyes on Eames’ hand and his lips parted, Eames chuckles and slows his strokes.

Arthur’s eyes flit up to his, and he scoffs, “Show off.”

Eames grins. “Just giving you an idea of what you’re in for, love.” He lays back down behind Arthur, parts his arse cheeks with his hand and his hole with the pad of his thumb. Arthur reaches back to guide him in and keeps his fingers wrapped around Eames’ cock through every stutter and complete stop of Eames’ entry. It’s a surprisingly intimate gesture, and Eames ducks his head down to press a kiss to Arthur’s shoulder. He leaves his lips there, breathing in the warmth and the moisture of Arthur’s skin as he pushes in to the hilt.

Arthur presses his forehead to Eames’ jaw, swallows hard and says, “Fuck me. Please,” damn near begging. Eames’ baser instincts kick in and he starts thrusting. The noises that Arthur makes, his movements, the way his body responds to Eames’ all guide Eames’ rhythm. Thank God for that. Eames isn’t entirely capable of making informed decisions with Arthur writhing against him, his fingers digging into the swell of Eames’ arse in encouragement, his right leg lifted so that Eames can push in deeper.

He looks a bit dazed, his eyelids heavy and his mouthing hang open. The only sound he makes is the _hah hah hah_ of breath being pushed out of him every time Eames thrusts, as if he’s not quite cognizant enough to make use of his vocal cords. The sight of him is enough to bring Eames too close to the edge too fast. Eames curls up and pushes his forehead into the skin between Arthur’s shoulder blades, and then he makes the mistake of opening his eyes. A fierce shiver to wracks his body when he sees his cock plunging into Arthur’s arse. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” he finds himself whimpering.

“I’m close,” Arthur says, too loud, and grabs for Eames’ hand. When Eames reaches forward and wraps it around Arthur’s cock, Arthur’s hips and head jerk back, the crown of his skull nearly knocking Eames in the teeth. Eames pumps his hips as fast as he’s able, and Arthur lets out a quiet, “Fuck,” and spills over Eames’ fist. Eames buries his face in Arthur’s hair and shudders through his own orgasm, his ears ringing.

~

Eames awakens the next morning at dawn to the familiar sound of baboons using his tent as a jungle gym, the _whoosh_ of them sliding down the pitched roof, the scratching of their clawed hands and feet as they climb back up the canvas to do it all over again.

Arthur has already vacated the cot, likely pulled out of sleep at some ungodly hour by jet lag. Eames stretches his arms above his head and his feet out past the end of the mattress, rolls off the cot and pulls on some warm clothes. Mornings are cold on the savannah.

He finds Arthur outside, hunched low in a folding canvas chair, two tin mugs full of liquid that’s obviously gone cold on the card table next to him. When Eames walks up behind him, he jolts, likely out of sleep, and tilts his head up. He blinks slowly, the skin around his eyes contracting as he pulls Eames’ face into focus. He inhales sharply and yawns. “I’ve been up since three,” he says by way of explanation. “What time is it now?”

Eames smiles down at him and pushes several wayward strands of hair off his face. “About six, six thirty.” He looks over at the mugs next to Arthur’s elbow. “Is one of those for me?”

Arthur looks over at them and frowns. “Yeah. Earl Grey. Definitely gone cold by now. You like milk and sugar, right?”

Of course Arthur, with his eye for detail, would pick up on and remember that fact from their afternoon together in Cairo.

“I do. Thank you.” Eames picks up his mug of tea and forgoes the empty chair on the other side of the card table to sit on the ground between Arthur’s legs. He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans his head against the inside of Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur threads his fingers through Eames’ hair, plays with the strands for a few silent moments before he says, “You remember the first question that I asked you in Cairo?”

“You asked me a lot of questions, love.” Eames pushes his head back into Arthur’s hand and allows his eyelids to droop.

“I asked you if you lived there.”

Eames’ eyes snap open. “And?”

“And you said that you used to. Is that true?”

Eames thinks of what a tight-lipped bastard he’d been in Cairo regarding even the mundane details of his life. An old regret that he’s never quite managed to let go of surfaces from his subconscious.

He takes a deep breath and decides he may as well start at the beginning. “My father moved our family to Cairo when I was seven...”

 


End file.
